Page 67 of Prince of the Palisades

On the screen, Reiss’s eyebrows are practically kissing his hairline.

My heart lurches. I said too much. I didn’t explain things right—

“Wow.” His eyes crinkle. “Who knew being a royal was so dramatic?”

“It’s not funny.”

“It isn’t,” he confirms. He shifts around, revealing a pillow crease on his cheek. “But you seem like you needed a laugh. And a hug.”

I sigh. “A hug would be nice.”

“So, your ex is gonna be around.”

“Only platonically,” I rush out. “For the media. He knows about you. There’s nothing between me and him.”

He snorts. “Obviously. Why would you go back to a six when you have an eleven?”

I squint at him, smirking. “Who’s the confident one now?”

“Just stating facts.” He yawns again. “If hanging with him means people will stop focusing on what happened the other night, then cool. More alone time for us, right?”

“Right.” I toe off my Jordans, scooting onto the bed. Crash into the pillows with an embarrassingly big smile. “Just you and me.”

He nods, eyes heavy. “I don’t have to meet him, do I?”

“No.”

“Good.” He pauses. “Not that I’m worried. I don’t get jealous.”

“Allegedly,” I say with a laugh.

He flips me off, but the corners of his mouth tease up.

Silence creeps in. I realize this is the first time we’ve ever FaceTimed. We haven’t even talked on the phone before. I’ve never had to figure out how to say goodbye to him.

So, I don’t.

We lie on our sides and eventually let sleep say it for us.

“Okay. That’s enough.”

I almost knock over a full carafe of water when Léon reaches across the table to steal my phone away. I’d been studying the photos Samuel forwarded me from today’s appearance: throwing the first pitch before a playoff game at Dodger Stadium. He’d scheduled it early in our operation. Back when this was supposed to be less complicated. Before we involved my ex.

Now, I’m hours away from aPeopleexclusive of me and Léon sharing hot dogs in the stands. Perfect. While my sister’s off greeting children at a youth development center, I’m fake-smiling for all the telephoto lenses aimed at me from across the street.

“Give me my phone,” I say through my teeth.

“Non.” He hides it under a cloth napkin. “We’re supposed to look like we’re having fun.”

“I am,” I lie.

We’re on the outdoor patio of a chic LA restaurant. The area’s been closed off for us. Léon’s bodyguards—“Can you believe they only gave metwo?” he whined earlier—wait by the door. Ajani is here too. The neighborhood’s all palm trees and designer shops and a sea of valet-parked luxury cars.

“That’s your fun face? Looks like your diarrhea face.” Léon does a poor imitation of whatever’s happening with my expression.

I smile, all teeth. “Go. To. Hell.”

“I’m already there,” he comments dryly. “The palace has me staying at the Waldorf in Beverly Hills.”

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